Remembrance/Gratitude/Praise Tag

04 Dec

Posted at 17:26h in Sarah's Journal by

The Old River Lea is tidal. Beyond Stratford further downstream it joins the River Thames. Before they dammed the river as part of the London Olympic park developments, bream used to swim up here to spawn every spring. History intersects with Hackney via old pathways and water ways. Roman fragments have been found in the neighbourhood over the centuries. Hackney Marshes – land reclaimed in the 1940’s is bisected by an ancient thoroughfare – the ‘black path’. The ‘Middlesex Filter Beds’ were made to clear the water of cholera as part of the ambitious plan to pump and pipe water around the city. Despite knowing this and passing a London ‘mile stone’ at the boundary of South Millfields, it still feels incongruent to find what looks like a piece of archaeology. It is made of stoneware, a handle decorated in blue and white glaze. Is this the remaining piece of an eighteenth century picnic mug? Did it travel to what was a delightful country spot in a Hackney carriage? What will they find here in the future – micro shards of a plastic lighter worn smooth by tumbling water over grit and stones? Maybe the pair of spectacles Terry dropped here eleven years ago will be preserved in the mud for future treasure seekers.

11 Nov

Posted at 21:44h in Sarah's Journal by

I made a donation for a white poppy knitted in sparkly wool. I lost it before I could commemorate it with a photograph. I wanted to make a gesture of remembrance that spoke to peace. The red poppy leaves me feeling a little uncomfortable, that it can be easily bound up with jingoism, or mistaken for my support of a specific cause. Often in family constellations where the silence of those returned from conflicts or genocides are played out by the next generations. I feel our world wounded by the failings over and over again to recognise and hear the consequences for those at the receiving end of violence and also for the perpetrators. All of this undigested grief continues to play out in our collective unconscious. I want to say sorry for harm caused by me, by my forebears, by my nation. I want to apologise for gaps in my empathy and understanding. I don’t know how to land these words, which seem hollow. I have only my awareness to offer to the graves marked and unmarked of complex histories, as I listen to the voiceless.

02 Nov

Posted at 11:22h in Sarah's Journal by

Floral tributes tell me about family and class of both who is left behind, and who has died. There is a fashion too for depictions of hobbies done in flowers. In the manner of celebration cakes, displays of cats, football teams, cars and musical instruments are popular. I imagine my own funeral. There is a cardboard coffin in a camper van, a ram-shackle procession. I love floral letters, imagine them hand-held, lined up to spell something irreverent perhaps – to give passers by a laugh, or food for thought. I imagine the cost, (keep it to the minimum) then a pithy epitaph. LOVED. Does that say everything that’s needed? It is both adjective and verb, the final stamp of a well-lived life. Or better still, use one letter shorter, LOVE, a command, inspiration, a name, the sum of everything that matters.

31 Oct

Posted at 16:41h in Sarah's Journal by

Halloween is being marketed to us by corporations who want to sell mass produced synthetic costumes, plastic buckets, cheap chocolate grown where rainforests used to grow and sweets which encourage obesity. We are being sold images of this American confection through film, TV and social media. However, scratch the surface and you will find Samhain – the old Celtic festival to mark the end of harvest and the passage into winter. This has been celebrated for centuries on these isles. All Souls Day (the first of November) has been glued onto the old roots of this festival. I sense the profusion of “trick or treating” and dressing up in gothic styles as a response to our hunger for a connection with the circle of life and death. We yearn for a relationship with the ancestors – which we will soon be. Borrowing from the tradition of ‘Los Dios de los Muertos’, the ‘Day of the Dead’ in Mexico, a family film like ‘Coco’ (Pixar/Disney 2017) does just that in a way that includes children. “The English experience of death is apologetic. In Mexico it’s a celebration of the person who’s passed on.” (Stephen Wright, artist) After placing offerings for my ancestors, on Saturday I will be slipping on my skeleton suit and dancing at ‘Golden Delicious’.
http://www.rialtotheatre.co.uk/whats-on/events/golden-delicious-day-of-the-dead

28 Oct

Posted at 20:01h in Sarah's Journal by

Tony, Pan-like with his goat legs and horns dances on the beach. Our feet crunch on the stones to the beat. The elements put on a show as the sun sets. Big wide sky swirls above us blue, pink and gold like a lava lamp. The sea is still, coated with a petrol blue lacquer. The pier is crusted with jewel bright lights, which melt colour into the sea as the sky darkens. We dance around a fire, watching the elemental performance. The flames breathe in the light salt air and bless us with wood smoke. Tess plays a track which speaks to me. I suck on spaciousness, loosen my limbs, feel gratitude for the beating of my heart.
http://www.wildmoves.org/waves-on-the-beach/4594154601

24 Oct

Posted at 22:01h in Sarah's Journal by

On the brow of the hill where the view is attention seeking is a simple bench. “In memory of Alan Holden 1924-2011…expertly monitored butterflies and helped create the nature reserve for all to enjoy,” reads the plaque. Eight years since his death, and here lie fresh flowers. The living rush about, send texts, busy themselves with infinite to do lists. This eight-years-gone man has time to remind us to sit awhile. I remember a holiday free from the tyranny of digital means. We sat on a bench on a hill to watch the passing of sunlight across a valley, and the movement of goats. We called it ‘goat tv’. I stop and remember at this place of remembrance that other view where we stopped and sat.

21 Oct

Posted at 21:31h in Sarah's Journal by

Pavement shrines spring up on the streets outside the formality of churches to signify an unexpected death, an accident or a brutal ending. On this particular corner the end of the working week is announced with a gathering. A member of this club has died. His end is celebrated like any Friday with Wray and Nephew over-proof rum. A Jamaican flag, his name, a photo have been taped round the tree where they meet in honour – RIP it reads. Flowers and candles are placed here to remember him. A balloon is now slowly exhaling. Is this the Jamaican tradition of Nine Night happening here, on the street corner?

18 Oct

Posted at 21:44h in Sarah's Journal by

We returned to the beach of the Thames to mudlark for bones and shells. We scooped water close to the outlet of the River Fleet. We sat, sensing the slice of history resting in the sediment. Animal bones, and broken clay pipes nestle alongside drift wood and bottle tops. A cross section of time lies in the water. The intersection of culture and faith meets here too – the Globe, Tate Modern and St Paul’s. We trundled then with our loads back along Millbank re-walking the streets walked these last twelve days. Our pilgrimage ended back in Trafalgar Square where we landed to make an altar with our harvest for the closing ceremony. We the Grief Listeners brought a group intention of dropping into the land, of space holding, of pause and reflection. Through all the complexities, imperfections and words, we did our best to “remember our love for this beautiful planet that feeds, nourishes and sustains us.”*
*From Extinction Rebellion’s Solemn Intention Satement.

02 Oct

Posted at 21:53h in Sarah's Journal by

I love ‘Who Do You Think You Are’. Celebrities who I don’t always know delve into their family history. I relish the way that global themes narrow down to singular personal histories, which inevitably involve rags, riches and short life spans. The threads to forgotten tragedies are found or lost and tears come for those Blessed forbears who trod the earth before. Brian Blessed’s thundering voice trembles as he addresses his great great great grandfather, “I wanted to find guts and courage and imagination. This is what life’s about”. Some of our ancestors watch from the walls.

29 Sep

Posted at 20:14h in Culture Reviews by

In a hidden corner of South London is artist Stephen Wright’s extraordinary house. It is a cave of wonders, an eclectic collage of colours, textures, objects and images. Over many years he has crafted the house to tell the story of his own ethnobiography. Confronted by the death of his parents and then partner, the walls, ceiling and sculptures inside reflect the narrative of his grieving process. It is a moving temple of remembrance. As I revisit the ‘House of Dreams’ for the third time I am welcomed through its blue door – where conversations about art, beauty and death are celebrated. www.stephenwrightartist.com/houseofdreams.php